


A rather unexpected occurrence

by Alexander_Writes



Series: Concerning An Important Conversation [1]
Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Dexter POV, Hurt/Comfort, Industrial Revolution backdrop, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Ravel's year long absence comes to an end, Reunions, Sentimental ending but it's deserved considering the circumstances, Vague English City Setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:07:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24181084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_Writes/pseuds/Alexander_Writes
Summary: "... Ravel’s been bothering our troops for a while now. Apparently, he’s gone rogue.”Wherein Dexter ponders the Industrial Revolution while on mission, has a conversation with Larrikin, and Erskine isn't dead after all.
Relationships: Dexter Vex/Larrikin, The Dead Men & Erskine Ravel
Series: Concerning An Important Conversation [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1666825
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	A rather unexpected occurrence

**Author's Note:**

> The author makes no claims of historical accuracy.

It was a wet morning, thick with dew and ash. Below the hill’s ridge the chimneys puffed smoke that smothered everything in sight. The sun was shining red behind this grey curtain. It hung above the Dead Men, larger than it seemed in Ireland. They had not had time to procure horses before Peregrine teleported them to England, so they made do with walking the cobbled roads and muddied paths that would lead them to their destination. It shouldn’t be more than several days walking now.

Dexter looked out at the devastation the mortals had wrought. He hadn’t followed the swift advances made by mortal Europeans. The last decades had been full of fighting and near misses and friends’ deaths. He had blinked and now things around him had changed. He didn’t know if he liked the feeling. Skulduggery was monologuing on the amazing capacities of the steam engine as they walked, Ghastly ribbing him in return. Saracen interrupted Skulduggery to correct him on some obscure points now and then, often with a twinkle in his eye. Hopeless was wearing a different face, trailing behind the bulk of their company with Shudder.

About half of them were born into magical families. Dexter was not, and neither were Saracen and Larrikin. Dexter’s mother had been widowed young, and managed her plot of land while raising four children with a fortitude Dexter only now truly appreciated. Their feudal lord had not been the most oppressive; he was often away, and tithes were never so high that they starved. But neither did he raise a hand to help when harvest was bad. Dexter’s mother had been the one to keep Dexter and his siblings from starving; they lived off their garden, the land, and the income his mother received from the clothing and cloth she wove.

Nowadays, machines wove cloth faster in a day than his mother could in a month. Dexter’s mother would have had to move to find work and income. She would have lived in the smog and filth of cities like these, and Dexter would have worked in one of these factories, however young he was. Dexter inhaled a particularly foul clump of air, and coughed.

According to an anonymous source the Book of Names was hidden in a nearby town. They had the name of the woman possessing it, her address and the directions to her place. However, their maps were old, old enough that the factories and the sprawling size of the city was a surprise. Dexter looked down at the map in his hands, and felt his stomach sink further.

“God, Sorcerers are idiots,” Dexter said. “Did they not think that, maybe, England might change somewhat in fifty years?”

“Evidently not,” Shudder responded.

“To be fair, England hasn’t ever changed like this before,” Larrikin said. “Or at least, not in most of our memories.”

“It’s horrible,” Saracen said, drawing his handkerchief tighter around his mouth.

“It’s progress,” Skulduggery said, and they all looked at him as if he were mad. Admittedly, Pleasant was not known for his sanity. It had taken the group combined to convince him to wear a disguise for this trip; he had thought it would be “amusing” to walk skull-bare through the English countryside. At least the hood he now wore was amusingly conspicuous; it hid his head, but the day was much too warm for ordinary people to wear such a garment. 

“People are being exploited, and many have lost their jobs permanently,” Dexter said. “Disease is rampant, as in _worse than it was before_. People’s lifestyles are being uprooted.”

“I never said that progress was good,” Skulduggery said. “Only that it was happening.”

“It makes you wonder what they’ll have done in a century,” Ghastly said quietly.

“Or what they’ll destroy,” Dexter said, and pushed ahead.

“Is anyone going to admit that we’re lost?” Larrikin asked, finally, when they had winded through the choked streets for much too long.

The map indicated that they should be here already, but there wasn’t any sign of the street nor even of houses where she might be residing. A tavern hovered on the corner of an intersection, and a school and church were somehow clustered together on this narrow road. The place smelt of unwashed bodies and rot. It was getting late, late enough that men and women and children were filtering out of the factories where they worked and walking home. People were beginning to crowd into the tavern, laughter and the sound of conversation straying out onto the street. The whole place felt thick with human life and suffering and struggle. When Dexter glanced at Hopeless, he saw that their jaw was clenched. He put a hand on their shoulder for a moment.

Hopeless cursed under their breath and marched towards a man selling the last of the day’s papers. Hopeless was currently looking like a broad man in his early thirties, and when Hopeless approached the seller the man visibly froze.

“Would you like a paper, sir?”

“Yes,” Hopeless said, and paid for it. Every time they opened their mouth Dexter had to force himself not to stare; he was used to Hopeless’ soft, measured Irish tone, but now their voice was deep and undeniably from somewhere in Northern England. It shouldn’t have felt like a novelty, but Hopeless only changed shape for missions, and rarely into an Englishman.

Dexter walked over to Hopeless, who was still intimidating the newspaper man. The rest of the Dead Men loitered near the entrance of the pub. The newspaper man was really a boy, perhaps eighteen, slender, messy-haired and wide eyed. He looked up at Dexter, who smiled.

“Hullo, lad,” he said. “Any good news today?”

“Not much,” the boy said. “Though there are cartoons at the back? I’ve got Dickens’ latest instalment too, somewhere.” He rustled through his satchel.

Dexter didn’t know who Dickens was and didn’t much care. “Don’t worry yourself. I’ll look over his shoulder,” he tilted his head toward Hopeless. “Have you had a nice day, now?”

The boy blinked, and smiled a little shyly. Dexter wondered how many people gave him the time of day, or even said hello. “It’s been all right, I got to do a little reading myself between selling these.”

“Good to hear,” Dexter said. “Me and my …”

He hesitated, trying to quickly remember whether they had agreed on a relationship for him and Hopeless that would explain their newness to the place as well as their need to find this woman.

“… wife,” Hopeless said, then blinked.

The boy wasn’t deaf, and he was looking at the two of them with even wider eyes. Hopeless’ bulk and the handle of the machete in their belt dissuaded any comments.

“My _friend_ has a peculiar sense of humour,” Dexter said, an aside to the boy. “Anyway, we’re new here.”

“You don’t say,” he said.

If Hopeless’ misstep hadn’t thrown Dexter off it would be rather amusing, he thought. He hurried to take a handle on the conversation.

“We’re looking for my sister. I was wondering if you knew of her at all …”

The boy was already shaking his head. “Sorry sir, there are so many people living here, I doubt I could tell you who my neighbours are.”

“Her name’s Cassandra Pharos,” Hopeless said.

“Ah,” the boy said, and squinted at them both. Coming to some sort of decision, he pointed. “She’s down the road, in that building there.”

“Thank you. Have a good evening,” Dexter said. He took Hopeless’ elbow and walked them both toward the others.

“In my defence,” Hopeless said. “I forgot I look like this at the moment. I was Ghastly’s ‘wife’ last mission, I got it mixed up.”

“If you wanted to make an honest man of me,” Dexter said. “You could have just asked.”

Hopeless’ shoulders dropped in sudden relief. “That’s more Larrikin’s place than mine, don’t you think?”

Dexter snorted at that, and they walked down the street until they located Cassandra’s flat.

Cassandra Pharos had really made her cramped and squalid apartment uniquely hers. At least, that was the closest thing to a compliment that Dexter could muster, and he kept it to himself. The walls were traced with sigils, straw dolls decorating the doors, and there was a heaviness that filled the air. Cassandra was greying a little, more noticeable than when they’d last met. Her smile was the same.

“Hullo, gentlemen,” she said as they entered. “Larrikin love, how are you doing?”

Larrikin grinned, hugging her. “I’m wonderful. You look great, Cassandra.”

“I look old,” she corrected, smiling, and greeted the rest of them by name.

“Do you have the book?” Shudder asked.

“Yes, though I shan’t give it to you all yet.”

“Why not?” Dexter asked, frowning.

“I had a vision,” she said. “No, don’t worry yourselves, nothing terrible happened. I just know you cannot leave for another three days – I’ll give it to you then.”

“If we ask nicely,” Skulduggery said, over the collective groan. “Will you rethink your position?”

“I’m afraid not,” she said, and smiled. “Tea, anyone?”

General consensus was that Cassandra could be trusted, and furthermore that she shouldn’t be crossed unless completely necessary. A self-proclaimed pacifist, she nevertheless had helped the Allies enough that they couldn’t risk alienating her.

“This feels like a trap,” Anton had said, very calmly, but Dexter and Skulduggery were shaking their heads.

“Cassandra sheltered Augustus and I one time, in Spain, when Serpine was after us,” Skulduggery said. “I trust her with my life.”

Dexter blinked at Skulduggery’s casual anecdote. He rarely mentioned his wife; to the extent that Dexter had taken twenty-five years to learn what her name was.

“That doesn’t mean much,” Larrikin pointed out. “You’re dead.”

“With Ghastly’s life, then,” Skulduggery said, shrugging.

“Hey!” Ghastly said. “No, Skulduggery’s right. If Cassandra wants us to wait, then we should.”

Anton bowed his head in acquiescence, Larrikin grumbled, but the group was agreed. The only thing to do was secure accommodation for three days; Cassandra’s place was too small, and they didn’t wish to split up when it wasn’t necessary. In the end they simply lodged at the nearby tavern; there were bunks enough for the seven of them, and meals served hot late unto the night. The day ended anticlimactically, an evening spent in laughing camaraderie, in mortal territory in a civilian location, and Dexter didn’t begrudge it one bit.

Dexter woke to someone shaking his shoulders. He swung at them before he even opened his eyes, and so the first sight of the day was Larrikin leaping away, smiling widely. Dexter pushed himself to his elbows slowly. Everyone else was asleep around him, though Skulduggery seemed absent.

“What do you want?” Dexter asked.

“I can’t stand to stay here today.” Larrikin said. “We’re going out.”

“Out where?” Dexter said, with a yawn. “Larrikin, it’s barely dawn.”

Larrikin bit his lip. He was bouncing on his feet, a normal tick but one that seemed exacerbated today.

“I don’t like this place; there’s too much smoke and people and it reminds me of my family.”

“What does that have to do with me?” Dexter groaned, rolling back under the ragged rug the tavern had provided him.

“I’m going to an orchard; Cassandra told me about it. Will you come?”

Dexter grumbled in response, and closed his eyes. There was blessed silence for a beat or two, then Larrikin’s voice lost its perky silliness.

“Please?”

Dexter went.

Larrikin had neglected to mention that it was a long walk. The streets were already filling with people of all sorts; sellers and workers and children and churchgoers. Today the smog was particularly bad, and Dexter coughed in it. Larrikin darted ahead, a flash of red hair and blue tunic through the grey. Dexter stopped and crossed his arms. It took a minute for Larrikin to double back.

“What’s wrong?”

“Why did you drag me along, only to race ahead?” Dexter scowled. He had a headache, and was feeling particularly uncharitable.

“Sorry,” Larrikin said, and he grabbed Dexter’s hand and dragged him into walking again.

“Why did you want me along? What horrible things are you planning?”

“Why would I need to plan something horrible to want your company?”

Larrikin’s eyes were direct, and earnest, only laughing a little.

“I wanted you with me,” he said, like it was inevitable, or obvious, as simple as basic mathematics, as natural as the moon in the sky.

“All right,” Dexter said quietly, and he hid his smile. Larrikin didn’t.

The orchard was in a valley below the city. It was unkempt, with fruit rotting on the branches, but the air was clearer here, and there were even bees. Walking down the slope, past apple and pear trees, Dexter felt his shoulders slump. He plucked an apple from a tree overhead and inspected it, before biting into it. Larrikin had let go of his hand when they reached the orchard, and he was climbing one of the largest of the trees, face flushed with joy.

“Don’t fall!” Dexter called, with mock concern.

“Yes mother!” Larrikin replied. Dexter wrinkled his nose, and approached the base of Larrikin’s tree. He was half leaning out of it, looking up at the clouds and the distant smoke and the well-lit sky.

If the city reminded Larrikin of his childhood, this orchard reminded Dexter of his. It was simple, magicless, and spoke of a time long passed. He didn’t tell Larrikin. Dexter had the impression that something had happened during Larrikin’s youth, something terrible, that tainted all memories of that time. He didn’t wish to flaunt the relative happiness of his upbringing, in the face of that.

“I met Saracen in an orchard like this,” Larrikin said suddenly.

“You did?”

“Aye,” Larrikin grinned. “He had gotten himself beaten up by some brutes in the pub, had stumbled out of the village and into the orchard where I was hiding out. Can’t remember where this was now, places change. It was centuries ago. So, he staggered out into my little orchard and collapsed, and I found him half frozen and dragged him into the barn to get healed up.”

“What had he done in the village?”

“Huh?”

“To get beaten up. What did Saracen do?”

“You know, I’m not quite sure,” Larrikin said after a pause. “Anyway, I was telling a story.”

“I’m so sorry, your majesty.”

“Forgiven,” Larrikin said with a bow, and he almost slipped out of the tree before catching himself. “Where was I?”

“You were healing him.”

“Aye, well I healed him up and then Anton dropped by and Saracen started talking to him. We found out he was magic soon after – we didn’t know there was a community out there like us, but Saracen told us all about it. And so, when he set off for Cork to meet some magical friends, we came too.”

“Aww, that’s lovely.” Dexter said.

“Don’t tease,” Larrikin said, with a swift smile. “Which one of us did you meet first?”

“I met you all at the same time, remember? When we signed up.”

“Really?” Larrikin said, surprised. “I always thought you and Ghastly knew each other before.”

“Nah,” Dexter hoisted himself up onto the lowest branch, and sat. “Ghastly knew Erskine and Hopeless and Skulduggery. I was the only one friendless.”

“Poor lad,” Larrikin said, in an affected tone. He reached down to pat Dexter’s cheek, and Dexter batted at him like a cat. The man bounded back up the tree, laughing. The wind picked up, making the boughs sway and leaves laugh alongside Larrikin. It was still early in the morning, the sun seemed particularly bright.

Dexter leant his cheek against the bark of the trunk, and Larrikin quietened. Vex was caught by the need to say something, something important, and he had never seen the point of being quiet about such things, so he let himself just say it.

“I’m a little in love with you.”

The moment extended, until Dexter felt quietly sad. He put a smile on his face, and looked up to reassure Larrikin that he would respect his feelings, that he understood if they weren’t replicated, but at the sight of Larrikin’s face he bit his lip.

Larrikin was smiling so widely that it should be causing him pain. He didn’t say anything, but he lowered his hand down and Dexter took it, and Larrikin squeezed it gently. Not a rejection then. Dexter wasn’t sure what the man meant, but he didn’t want to push it. He looked back out across the valley, and Larrikin dropped down to wrap an arm around his shoulders.

“No lad’s ever told me that first before,” Larrikin mused. “I’m happy you did.”

“Does that mean …?”

“I don’t know. Yes. A bit. A lot. Sorry.” Larrikin shook his head. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

“That’s alright,” Dexter said. “I can wait.”

“I mean I like you too,” Larrikin said, after a pause. “I’d like to step out with you, if you wished.”

“Oh,” Dexter grinned. “Absolutely.”

“Good,” Larrikin said. The silence became comfortable again, until Dexter broke it.

“Step out? Are you an English lady now?”

“I look wonderful in a dress and corset and a big feathery hat,” Larrikin said, huffily. “How dare you suggest otherwise.”

Dexter snorted, and put his arm around Larrikin too. They stayed there, until the sun settled higher into the sky, and they decided to return to their companions.

The others were having lunch when Dexter and Larrikin returned. They were in the main dining room of the tavern, and Saracen waved at them as they approached.

“Where were you two?” Ghastly asked.

“Around,” Dexter said, slipping into the booth. “What’s for lunch?”

“Lots of meat,” Hopeless said grumpily. They didn’t refuse to eat animal flesh, but they avoided it whenever possible.

“Sounds great,” Larrikin said, still standing. “I’ll get ours.”

Larrikin flitted away, and the conversation returned to whatever it was before Dexter interrupted. Apparently, they were discussing what they should do with the remaining time. Hopeless wanted to get out of the city; they said this with all the lines of their body rigid, tight as if they were going to scream if they were here any longer. Skulduggery wanted to go to the nearby factories. Dexter suggested going back to Cassandra and annoying her so much that she just gave them the book to get rid of them. Ghastly laughed, and then Larrikin was back with two beers. He pushed one over to Vex, and Dexter was turning to thank him when all his comrades froze. Ghastly and Saracen were on their feet, and Larrikin was staring, a curse on his lips. Something smashed, and Dexter turned.

“You’re crazy!” A man squawked.

“If you run away I’ll cut your throat.”

“Hey, what’s this here?” The barkeep called.

Hopeless had their hand on a man’s collar. Their machete was in their free hand, their eyes wild. The man was muscled from working, at least past his thirtieth year, but he was cowering under Hopeless’ grey gaze. He must have just been drinking at the bar before Hopeless accosted him. Dexter rose to his feet, and the rest of the Dead Men warily approached the two. Only Skulduggery remained in his seat, hiding under his hood.

“Get on your knees,” Hopeless snarled, shoving the man down. He obeyed.

“Hopeless,” Saracen called out, gently. “What are you doing?”

“Not now, Rue.”

“Hey, just let that gentleman go …” Dexter started, hands out like Hopeless was a spooked animal.

“No.” Hopeless turned back to the quavering stranger. “Now. You’re going to tell me why you’re so scared of a man named Erskine Ravel right _now_. Or else I’ll slice off your ears, one by one.”

Dexter’s breath caught, first by the name, then by the contained violence in Hopeless’ voice.

“Ravel’s dead,” Ghastly said quietly.

The man’s eyes brightened in recognition. “You’re one of _them_. The Resistance.”

“Answer me, or I swear to the Faceless …”

“Oh, you’re Mevolent’s,” the man said, and relaxed a little. “Calm down, man. Ravel’s been bothering our troops for a while now. Apparently, he’s gone rogue.”

Dexter’s stomach dropped. Beside him, Larrikin squeaked. Hopeless dropped his collar. Their cheeks were flushed.

“Where did you see him last?”

The man massaged his neck. “Wasn’t there meself, but he was down near the church last time our troops saw him.”

“When was that?”

“Last night. He’s been making things difficult for us the last week or so.”

“All right,” Hopeless said, and they stepped away. Dexter reached out, and they fell back against him for a moment. Hopeless’ hands were trembling. Dexter grabbed their hand to stop them dropping their weapon. The blades were sharp, liable to cut off toes.

The soldier was looking at them, confusion in his eyes. Mevolent’s troops were all over England, it wasn’t a particular surprise to find one here, but they couldn’t afford to be recognised. Even in neutral territory, such as mortal cities, the enemy posed a danger.

“We’re leaving,” Shudder said, and the others didn’t need him to say it twice. The barkeep glared at them all as they left. Dexter wondered if he’d allow them to sleep there that night, or whether it’d be better just to cut their losses and go somewhere else.

“How did you know that man knew something about Erskine?” Shudder asked Hopeless, once they were all out on the street.

“That doesn’t matter right now,” Hopeless said, their shock having evaporated. “Hurry up.”

They ran down the cobblestone path towards the church, but Saracen sped after them and grabbed their arm. Hopeless pulled away, but Rue held on, and they had a hurried discussion. Dexter jogged down to them.

“Alright,” Hopeless said, voice tight. “I’ll do what you say.”

“Good,” Saracen said. “Gentlefolks, we’re going to find where Mevolent’s men are camping out.”

The plan, Dexter soon learnt, was simple. If Erskine was around, he would search them out upon hearing that they were in the area. However, advertising their presence would be excessively dangerous, and this could be a convoluted trap. So, they needed to be wary, and careful. Ravel would either find them upon realising other allies were nearby, or they’d come across Erskine at the camps themselves.

Dexter kept returning to that name. It felt like he had swallowed something composed entirely out of nerves, he felt excited and bewildered, but mostly ill. They had never found Ravel’s body, but it had been a year; they had assumed that the man was dead. If Erskine was alive, having escaped Mevolent’s army, then why hadn’t he returned to them? What would he have lived through, in this last year? Larrikin put a hand on his shoulder, and Vex shook off the maudlin thoughts. It felt very improbable, all of it.

Sabotage was most fun in the middle of the day, Vex found. They had discovered Mevolent’s camp on the far side of the city, and with a combination of their magics had snuck into it undetected. They had found and punctured all the water barrels they encountered, and the wine barrels too. They then had loosed the chickens that were clearly for that week’s dinner, and set the meeting tent on fire. They retreated to view the effects of their masterpiece.

In the forest, they perched in trees and hid in the shadows and watched as soldiers raced around in an attempt to sort out the mess. The water barrels went unnoticed, the chickens were simply a nuisance, but the fire was a point of concern. Larrikin was giggling so much that Shudder had a hand covering his mouth. Dexter didn’t look at the two of them, else he would start laughing as well. It wasn’t simply petty; there weren’t enough elementals to replace all that lost drinking water easily, it was a significant inconvenience. Also, all of their planning documents were now on fire with the tent.

“Is that enough?” Ghastly asked Saracen. How Saracen came to be making this plan, Dexter wasn’t sure, but the man _knew_ things and surely that was adequate reason?

“Not at all,” Saracen said. “We’re doing more tonight.”

That night they found a different camp, further away from the city, and instead of being a nuisance they staked it out, watching for Erskine’s possible presence. It was a dark night, overcast, and there was enough cover for them to hide. Saracen had told them all to stay here, and so they found a nearby ditch, hidden by a number of bushes, and waited.

“We’ll know if Erskine arrives,” Saracen had said.

Dexter should have expected it. Hopeless hadn’t said anything substantial since they’d talked with Saracen at noon. But when they rolled away and slipped up out of the trench, Dexter started. They’d shed their taken shape, and were wearing the body they were born with. Slimmer and smaller, they melded into the nightscape. Larrikin made a quickly muffled sound of concern, and Dexter swore quietly, before crawling over to the edge and following his companion. He gestured for the rest to stay hidden; two people could perhaps escape detection, but seven would be more difficult.

Hopeless was already halfway to the camp, leaning against the nearest tree. Dexter could barely see the curve of their face, though he knew what to look for. He watched Hopeless’ shadow, from where he was lying on the ground. They glanced swiftly into the camp, satisfied, they trod swiftly and carefully up the slope, to lean against the back of the closest tent. Most soldiers were asleep, but even so, Hopeless was being incredibly foolhardy. Dexter followed, wary of being caught. He managed to keep them in his line of sight, but they were a fair distance away. If they were jumped, Dexter would have to give up his cover to attempt to rescue them. His palms felt warm, energy beams at the ready.

Thankfully, Hopeless didn’t seem to want to go further into camp. Dexter was about to risk it and join them at the tent, but something behind them moved. Hopeless’ face turned, and a sudden burst of flame from within the camp lit their face. Their eyes flashed. They reached out a hand, towards the shadow, and then they were thrown to the ground. The figure had both hands around Hopeless’ throat, and Hopeless’ hands were on the attacker’s wrists. The two rolled on the grass, neither wanting to make a sound. Dexter carefully moved towards them. Soldiers on the other side of the tent were starting to talk and laugh, someone was lighting a fire. The sounds and bursts of light gave the silent tussle an unworldly feeling.

Hopeless rolled the stranger onto their back, and instead of taking the advantage they launched themselves away. Dexter watched as Hopeless tripped over a tent peg, and then the stranger pinned them on the ground. Giving up any plan to be sneaky, he hurried over. As he did, the stranger clicked their fingers, the tiniest of sparks dancing in their cupped palm.

Hopeless was looking up at the figure, eyes wide. Dexter saw a flash of golden eyes, before the spark snuffed out of existence. The two were still, and Dexter found himself also caught by inaction, but then the attacker – Ravel – rolled off of Hopeless to kneel by the mage’s side. They said something to each other, the conversation muffled by the nearby racket, and Dexter walked slowly toward them. Ravel spun then relaxed, and Dexter dropped to his knees by them, mindful of their insecure position.

“Erskine?” He murmured, throat tightening.

Ravel nodded. “Dexter.”

“Come with us?” Vex asked.

Ravel’s head swivelled toward camp, but then he looked at Hopeless, still flat on the ground. He nodded, slowly, and offered a hand to Hopeless. The mage took it and let him pull them to a standing position. Vex wasn’t surprised to see that Hopeless didn’t let go of Erskine’s hand, and instead turned to glance around him. No sentries were visible, no sign of the enemy. He slipped back the way he had come, heart pounding. When they reached the ditch, the others were ready to leave. They did so swiftly, soundlessly, and with profound uneasiness.

They stopped when they found themselves in the city, in the dim light of gas lamps. Dexter’s eyes flickered to Erskine’s face, and looked away. For some reason, he didn’t want to meet his gaze, didn’t want to believe he was really there. There was a new scar on his cheek.

Hopeless was staring at Ravel with the same expression they’d had in camp. They were ashen. Dexter looked away from them too; he didn’t want to know why they were so shaken, nor what that meant about Erskine. Larrikin’s hands were curled into his sleeves, and Dexter wanted to cross the space between them and hug him, but now wasn’t the time. Erskine was looking at them all, slowly.

“What are you all doing here?” He asked.

“That’s … that’s the first thing you have to say?” Saracen asked.

“Well, yes,” Erskine said. “Last time I heard, you were in Russia.”

“We came back,” Shudder said.

Larrikin looked at them all, shook his head.

“You’re all stupid,” he declared, and opened his arms. “Come on. I want a hug.”

Erskine’s wariness dropped away, and he smiled. He let Larrikin pull him into a squeezing hug that stretched out longer than should have been comfortable. Larrikin leant back.

“Can I heal you?” He asked, quietly.

Erskine nodded, and Larrikin put a hand on his face.

“Heal?” Saracen said, sharply. “What happened?”

Erskine waved a lazy hand, careful not to hit Larrikin. “Got into a scuffle with Serpine’s men, it’s fine.”

“How are you _alive_?” Dexter blurted, and Erskine’s smile flattened. “You were caught by _Serpine_. It’s been a year.”

“Don’t worry, I remember,” Ravel said. He stepped away from Larrikin’s healing hands.

Hopeless shook their head at Dexter, pointedly. Saracen stepped forward to put a hand on Hopeless’ shoulder, and they shuddered. A horse drawn cart approached, and they moved to the side of the street. Dexter shook the shock away, as if he were a wet dog.

“Sorry,” he said. “Not the time. It’s good to see you.”

Erskine’s smile was off, somehow, like it didn’t fit on his face anymore. “It’s good to see you too.”

“Let’s get back to the tavern,” Ghastly suggested quietly. “We can talk privately there. We’re drawing attention.”

Erskine stood with a straight back; hands loose by his sides. Dexter forced himself to look at his friend properly. He was almost as pale as Hopeless. A stark contrast from that laughing, flirting young man from the last mission they had gone on together.

“All right,” Ravel said, and so they went.

In the tavern dormitory they barred the doors. Their silence was a living thing, twirling around them like crows or the like. Dexter forced himself not to stare at Ravel, at his wan face. Skulduggery was uncharacteristically silent, so was Hopeless. Erskine’s hands were twined together. Shudder looked a little doleful, but that wasn’t particularly unusual.

“Come here,” Dexter said, and his voice came out thicker than it should have.

Erskine stared, and Dexter pulled him into a hug. The moment he felt Erskine’s cold hands on his back, he realised it was real. The man’s hug was tentative, but Dexter was affectionate and unreserved. After a moment, Erskine’s head rested against his shoulder, and Dexter suppressed a manly sob.

“Thank god you’re here,” Dexter said. “Thank god.”

Erskine’s embrace tightened.

“Hey, what are you all doing?” Dexter said. “Come on. This man needs a hug.”

“What?" Erskine said, half joking, half concerned. “… No.”

Too late. Shudder had stepped forward, and was hugging them with such force that Dexter winced. Larrikin and Hopeless approached, and then Saracen and Ghastly did too. Skulduggery patted Erskine on the shoulder once, refusing to join the group embrace, but seven people were already a little too much anyway.

Erskine laughed. “Get off me now.”

They released him, all but Hopeless, but that was Erskine’s doing; he kept a gentle arm around their waist. The mage still looked like they had seen a ghost, they leant silently against Erskine’s side, but Dexter discarded that particular concern. They could all work through any issues and stories and explanations sometime later. Now what they needed to do was make sure Erskine was alright, was well, was laughing.

He could do that, Dexter thought, with steely determination. Unconsciously, he slipped his hand into Larrikin’s, and the healer squeezed it in response. Something terrible had happened. They had lost Erskine for a year and God - and Erskine and probably Hopeless somewhat - knew what had happened in that time. Not again, Dexter thought. He wasn’t going to lose another of his comrades again.

For the moment, he let himself be content with the sight of Erskine’s living face, his flashing eyes, the tenor of his voice, and found himself smiling, wider than before. This had been an unreasonably successful mission.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed. I'd love to hear your feedback.


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